


Betting High

by Lorelle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), External POV, Fluff, Getting Together, In which James is all of us, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, Queer Themes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 16:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelle/pseuds/Lorelle
Summary: After the Almost-Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale dine at the Ritz. Little do they know that there's more riding on their dinner than a nice evening out.





	Betting High

**Author's Note:**

> People really liked that waiter from Chapter 4 of [my first fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19793527/chapters/46861102) who definitely ships the Ineffable Husbands, so I decided to give him his own little story. It should make sense even if you haven't read it. Shoutout to TheLastQueenOfSpades for giving me the nudge I needed to write this!

As far as waiting gigs go, being a waiter at the Ritz in London wasn't half bad. The clientele were stuffy and boring, but the tips were good. Five days a week for the past 11 years, James Pearson had donned a tuxedo and waited on the fussy old rich people who patronized the restaurant.

To be fair, not _all_ the guests were boring. There was an eccentric old lady who came in a few times a week wearing every piece of jewelry she owned. There were actors and movie stars. And of course, there was a handful of well-known politicians who came in with much younger women who were definitely _not_ their wives.

But the most interesting guests by far were two middle-aged gentlemen who visited the Ritz together every six months or so. One of them James had immediately recognized as Mr. Fell, the kooky but kind bookseller who had worked in Soho as long as anyone could remember. He was a bit plump and always exceedingly well-dressed (or at least, he would have been if it had still been 1950). James had liked Mr. Fell from the first time he served him, during his very first week of work. Instead of the brusque treatment he had come to expect from the other guests, Mr. Fell said things like, “If it’s not too much trouble,” and “Oh, I do _so_ appreciate it, my dear.”

No one seemed to know much about the other man, other than the fact that he and Mr. Fell were quite attached at the hip. His name was Mr. Crowley and he dressed like someone who had never quite outgrown their punk phase. Lots of black and funky accessories, including a pair of stylish sunglasses that he never took off, even indoors. He was lanky and gaunt and seemed to radiate snark in the way Mr. Fell radiated cheer. The strangest thing about the pair was how utterly mismatched they seemed to be. Yet they continued to visit together, year after year.

James’ fondness for Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley only grew over the years. They always ended up in his section and only ever visited while he was working. James suspected that they called ahead and requested him specifically. Why, he couldn’t imagine, but he wasn’t complaining. Mr. Fell always made a point to ask James about his life. They talked at length about James’ studies and his boyfriend Mark and their French bulldog Gracie. Mr. Crowley always tipped him at least 30%.

How exactly Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley knew each other was a subject of hot debate in the break room of the Ritz. Theories had been discussed for years and answers had never been revealed. On the 11th anniversary of James’ employment at the Ritz, the subject came up again.

“They’ve got to be business partners,” said Caroline, one of the bartenders. She was leaning one of the cheap breakroom chairs back on two legs, a sandwich in her hand. Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley had just left the restaurant, both looking a bit stressed. Their conversation today had been terse and hushed.

“Business partners? You off your rocker?” answered Eric, the host who always seated the pair, “What would a bookseller be doing in business wi’ someone like ‘im? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, maybe Mr. Crowley helps him find more rare books or something? If you’re so clever, how do you think they know each other?” Caroline sneered, letting her chair fall back to the floor.

“For my money,” Eric said conspiratorially, pointing his fork at Caroline and narrowing his eyes, “They’re both in the mafia.”

“Oh, come off it.”

“No, I’m serious! I was in that bookshop of his jus’ the other day and these weird guys came in shoutin’ about buying pornography and then Mr. Fell took ‘em in the back, all suspicious-like! Mr. Fell doesn’t even _sell_ pornography. Explain that.”

“You’ve been watching too much telly, Eric,” said Caroline, rolling her eyes. She looked over at James, who was sitting at a nearby table eating his lunch. “What do you think, James? You know them the best. I mean, what do they even _talk_ about?”

James had overheard quite a few peculiar conversations in his years waiting on Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley. They talked about places James had never even heard of. They talked about historical events as if they had personal knowledge of them. They talked about people like Shakespeare and da Vinci as though they were old friends. They spent a lot of time discussing the American ambassador and his family, particularly his son. Once or twice, James had heard Mr. Fell refer to Mr. Crowley as a “demon” and sounding ominously literal about it. But when they weren’t having baffling conversations, they were flirting. At least, it looked like flirting to James. Furtive glances, shy smiles, teasing little quips. Maybe he was biased because he thought they would make a nice couple, but it seemed like they had a sort of star-crossed lovers dynamic. Forbidden romance or something. Forbidden by whom, James couldn’t be certain. It was possible they were just old and in the closet.

“I think…they’re in love.”

“Well, that’s the most ridiculous theory yet,” said Eric dismissively, stabbing at his salad with his fork.

“Hang on, he might be onto something there,” piped up Maria, another server. “Mr. Crowley is always calling Mr. Fell ‘angel.’ And they do seem quite familiar.”

“No. There’s no way! I’ll bet you ten pounds they’re mafia.”

Caroline smirked. “I’ll bet _you_ ten pounds they’re business partners. James?”

James thought about the way Mr. Fell sometimes looked at Mr. Crowley, as though he were the only person in the entire world who knew really knew him, the only person in the world who mattered. He thought about the way Mr. Crowley glared at everyone, saving his affectionate looks for Mr. Fell and Mr. Fell alone.

“Yeah, you’re both on. Ten pounds says they’re secretly in love.”

Several other people got in on the action. They drew up a little contract on the back of a napkin outlining the terms of the bet and James made a plan to discreetly ask the pair just how they were connected the next time they came in.

Miraculously, their answer came just a few days later. James had almost forgotten about the bet in light of the extraordinary events that had occurred over the past 48 hours. His mum had been among the thousands trapped in the worst traffic jam the M25 had ever seen. His dad, a security guard, had been on duty at the nuclear power plant when the reactor had gone missing. So when Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley walked in on Sunday afternoon, it took him a moment to remember why his heart was suddenly beating faster and why his palms had grown slick. Tonight was the night he would finally get his answer (and, God willing, about 100 pounds from his coworkers).

He had never seen Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley in such high spirits as they were tonight. The pair looked as though the weight of the world had just been lifted off their shoulders and at any moment they might sprout wings and start dancing on the ceiling. They sat down at their usual table, ordering heaps of sweets and several bottles of champagne. James poured their drinks, gathering his courage to ask them, feeling grateful that they were both in such good moods. Before he could say anything, Mr. Fell spoke. Sensing that this was meant to be a private conversation, James hurried away, listening and watching from a safe distance.

“I like to think none of this would have worked out if you weren’t, at heart, just a little bit of a good person.” An odd thing to say.

Mr. Crowley, sprawled out in his chair, as usual, smiled and answered, “And if you weren’t, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.” Even queerer.

James peeked around a shelf of wine bottles as the two clinked their champagne glasses together, toasting “To the world.” At that moment, his manager gave him a pointed stare from across the room and James tore his eyes away from the pair, bustling off to check on his other tables. It was about half an hour before he was able to make it back to them and when he did, he skidded to a halt, his eyes growing wide enough to resemble the Ritz’s dessert saucers.

They were holding hands.

Really, truly, properly holding hands. Fingers intertwined and all, Mr. Crowley’s thumb brushing slowly across the back of Mr. Fell’s hand. And they were gazing at each other with such luminous joy that the whole room seemed a bit brighter than usual.

Tasting triumph, James marched over to their table, unable to contain a huge grin from breaking across his face.

“Can I get you anything else?”

The two looked at each other, smiling rather sheepishly. Without taking his eyes off Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley said, “I think I’ve got everything I need.” Mr. Fell’s champagne-pinkened cheeks lifted, his eyes crinkling.

“As do I.”

Inside, James was jumping up and down, cheering and setting off fireworks, but he managed to arrange his face into a polite smile and say in a strained voice, “Right. Jolly good.”

He hurried back to the kitchen, barely restraining himself from breaking into a run. He flung the door open so hard it bounced off the wall with a crash. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

“Bloody hell, James! What on Earth—?” Caroline said, putting a hand over her heart.

“They’re holding hands!” he screeched. There was a moment of shocked silence and then a great scuffling as the entire kitchen and waitstaff ran to the door to see. James was nearly knocked off his feet in the kerfuffle. After everyone had taken a look, some moaning in defeat, others shrieking with glee, wallets came out and people started handing James and Maria their well-earned money. Eric pulled out his wallet, shaking his head.

“You know, this doesn’t mean they’re not _also_ in the mafia,” he grumbled, shoving a ten-pound note into James’ waiting hand.

Maria beamed at him, clutching her own stack of bills.

“What are you going to do with your winnings?” she asked. James turned and looked out the kitchen door to where Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley sat, enjoying their meal and each other’s company.

“I’m going to take those two out on a double date.”


End file.
